


The Dress of Power

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:50:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8548657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Bridget has a secret superpower, and it brings Mark to his knees.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Finished this back in July, have just been waiting to post. Now seems a good time. ♥

Every woman has a dress in which she knows she looks fantastic. It's not a single style of dress, or a specific, single kind of woman. It's a mix and match sort of thing. When they find the right combination…

Bridget certainly knows hers. And she knows that I know.

It all stems from the first time I saw her wearing it. I had come home early from work to what I thought was an empty house, and had poured myself a steadying two fingers of scotch. I had just slugged it down when I heard a noise upstairs.

Curious, I went to investigate, but of course, I did so stealthily, in case it was an actual prowler. As I got closer, I realised very quickly that it was not.

The door to the master bedroom—our bedroom—was opened a sliver, and I approached it quietly. From that view at the door, I could see her in front of the mirror, wearing what I presumed was a new dress.

The dress is a deep ruby red. Silk. Sleeveless. It has a collar that reminds me of something a silver screen goddess might have worn, with a wide band of fabric stretched from shoulder to shoulder, diving down a little in the front, enough to frame her cleavage, and down a lot in the back. The bodice of the dress was snug to her form through the hips; surprisingly long and much looser was the skirt, longer and looser than she usually wore, but as she admired herself in the reflection, shifted to stand on the opposite foot, I realised it was slit on the side up to mid-thigh.

She had on high-heeled shoes, too, in that same shade of red.

My mouth went instantly dry.

She turned her head from side to side, her long hair brushing against the bare skin of her back, and for a moment I could only imagine brushing my own fingers against her skin too.

She had found The Dress. Who could blame her for putting it on the moment she got it home to look at it again?

I felt a bit odd sitting in the proverbial shadows and watching her, a bit creepy, but truth be told I was rendered both speechless and unable to move. To watch her admiring herself in a world when women are only supposed to look at themselves to identify areas to improve… it was wonderful. It was beautiful. And it was sexy as hell.

She put her hands on her hips, twisted at the waist to pose as if casting a look over her shoulder, then turned to do the same in the other direction. Her smile, as I could see it reflected in the mirror, was incandescent. She had perhaps only looked more radiant on our wedding day.

I suppose I shifted my weight from one foot to another or otherwise made some kind of noise, because she obviously started, met my gaze first in the mirror, then turned slowly to meet my gaze directly. "You scared the hell out of me," she said. "How long have you been standing there?"

I cleared my throat. "Long enough."

"What do you think of this dress? Found it on a discount and—"

I strode towards her possibly a bit too quickly, so quickly she stopped speaking abruptly, but I wanted to let her know exactly what I thought. I placed my hands on her waist, stroking my hands over the silky fabric, down over her hips and arse, not breaking our gaze.

"Mm. I think I know what you think," she said, smirking devilishly.

"Am I that transparent?" I asked her.

She stepped closer to me, pressing against me, then she quickly glanced down in a pointed manner. It was clear what she meant: the fact that I was, indeed, aroused. Surely it would have been cause for concern had I not been. "You might just be," she said.

"An absolute stunner," I managed.

"The dress? Me?"

"Yes," I said, then wrapped my arms around her waist, bent slightly to kiss her, pulling her against me tight. I stopped only when she started to giggle through the kiss.

"I don't think I've ever seen you—rather, _felt_ you—quite this affected by me in a dress," she said.

It was true. I had been reduced to a hormone-addled school boy. All I wanted to do was run my hands over her body. Kiss her. Make love to her. And my intentions, my thoughts, were indeed transparent.

"I think I could definitely use this to my advantage in future," she murmured, just as I began to kiss her again. This time she brought her arms up around my neck. I found the top of the zip at her lower back, tugged it down. Stroked her arse again. Squeezed.

I couldn't have her soon enough.

I walked her towards the bed, slipping my fingers beneath the fabric to touch her skin. She made a little sound in my mouth, further driving my desire. I set her on the bed, raised the hem higher and higher. I realised I wasn't going to wait to slip the dress off. Realised I wouldn't have done, anyway.

That dress. I wanted her in it.

To my delight and surprise she was not wearing standard utilitarian cotton pants, but a silken pair that matched the dress exactly in colour, which I discovered as I pushed the dress up to her waist. They were skimpy enough to pose no barrier.

As for myself, I only drew away or apart those articles of clothing that were absolutely necessary. I felt a momentary twinge of guilt for the haste, but time was of the essence. In that moment, I planned to make up for it in other ways afterward. After all, I had never failed to do so in the past.

I leaned down over her, pushed the silken panties aside, then quickly thrust forward with my own hand to guide me in. As I did I groaned with the sheer pleasure of the sensation of joining with her. As a matter of fact, my knees went weak beneath me, but I quickly recovered myself in short order. After all, I had to finish what I started. It was a moral imperative.

I felt her heels on the backs of my thighs, and by that I mean the heels of her shoes, which only helped drive me even more wild. It wasn't long at all before I felt my reserve totally give away, and with a final thrust I came with a strength commensurate to the deep lust I'd felt.

I dropped to the bed beside her, my hand on her hip to pull her with me. She looked as limp and spent as I felt, with a beatific expression on her face. Swept up in love for her, I reached to kiss her tenderly and at length.

"I should find the perfect dress more often," she murmured as she snuggled up to me. "I should definitely wear it as often as I can."

"I don't know about that," I said. "I doubt I'd be able to have a coherent thought around you in that dress." There was a hint of humour in my tone, though I meant it more seriously than I wanted to admit. 

"So if there's something I want," she said thoughtfully, "I could just wear this dress."

I said nothing. In hindsight, I should have fibbed, should have said "Don't be silly," because silence was just as bad as admitting she was probably right.

She pushed herself up onto her elbow to meet my gaze, her devilish smirk unmistakeable. "Ooh. I could, couldn't I?"

"As if I ever deny you anything," I said, trying to minimise things with a light-hearted tone. It was too late.

"Ooooh," she said again, her blue eyes positively sparkling. "This'll be _fun_!"

I was doomed, but then again, I knew what I was getting myself into a long time ago when it came to her.

And I would be put to the test soon enough.

………

The invite came at a late date, but Horatio, my colleague invited me to drinks party and dinner for the partners in chambers and other legal professionals on the upcoming weekend. Knowing how uncomfortable these 'do's make Bridget—frankly, I don't exactly love them, myself, but social obligations are part of the job—I almost didn't ask her, but when she asked me what was on my mind, I couldn't lie, and I told her.

"Ooh," said Bridget. "I'll go."

I was exceedingly sceptical. "You don't like these things."

"There are lots of things I don't like, but I'm an adult, and I can manage," she said, then added brightly, "And it gives me time with you."

On the day of the dinner, just three days after this, I turned up at the prearranged hour to pick her up. I parked the car at the kerb and went to the door to ring the buzzer.

"Come on up! Almost ready!" she beckoned through the proxy of the speaker. I heard the lock release on the door.

"I thought you'd be ready," I said, but she didn't respond. So I went upstairs to see what the delay was. The flat door was slightly ajar, which I admit upset and angered me for security reasons, so I went in and closed it. Crossly, I called her name again. "We're going to be late."

I heard movement, then saw something that caused me to experience serious cognitive dissonance. Bridget was not wearing a simple cocktail dress; she was wearing that dress. Stockings. The matching red shoes. And a wicked, wicked smile.

"Bridget," I said again, though my tone lacked any anger or actual conviction. "What are you wearing?"

"The first opportunity I've had to wear this dress out," she said. She came close to me, putting her hand on my shoulder, stepping closer to kissing my cheek, pressing her breast up against my arm. As she usually does to greet me hello. 

I knew then we would definitely not be going to the party.

I brought my hand to her hip, sliding it around her waist as she stepped closer.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"Pretty sure you already know what I think," I said, then dropped my head to kiss her deeply. 

"Oh yes," she murmured as she pulled away, bringing a hand up to trace her fingers along my cheek. "I can _feel_ how you think."

I didn't answer, not with words, but more of a sound low in my throat. Then I kissed her again. Desire went from a flame to a conflagration in the beat of a heart; once again I was reduced to hormone-addled schoolboy. My hands went, as they usually do, to her backside, squeezing, pulling her up against me, loving the feeling of her moan as I do.

And then I had her backed up against the wall, as I pulled the dress higher and higher up; I raked my blunted nails against the skin on the back of her legs, then her arse, which, to my delight, I found was bare. I practically tore aside my trouser fly, then grasped her and lifted her up, pressing myself against her as we continued kissing.

Her legs encircled my waist and she arched her hips, allowing me to position myself to drive into her. She made a long, low sound as I thrust forward hard, pinning her against the wall. My continued thrusts caused the picture frames to start to rattle, but I hardly cared. Gravity was our ally as we came closer and closer to climax.

It wasn't simultaneous, but it was close; she clung to me so tightly I was able to bring my hand up between us to work at the spot where our bodies met, so she came first, clenching me tightly, heels digging into me, as she found that release repeatedly. The feel of her pleasure was just enough to set me off too, and I didn't hold back. 

When I stopped to take a breath at last, it took every ounce of effort and strength I could muster to carry her the short distance to the sofa, then sat with her upon my lap; the dress fell down around us as I released my grasp from around her waist. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me, then nuzzled into my neck.

I had to admit, this was a damn sight better than Horatio's bloody stuffy drinks party.

"I'm sure my hair and makeup's a mess," she said breathlessly, close to my ear. "I'll need a little time to fix up before we go."

I said nothing, just ran my hands over her backside again, kneading her arse with my fingers, turning my head to find her neck and place my mouth against it. Said without words that I was in no mood to hurry anywhere. She took in a quick breath, arching her back, sitting upright to better meet my gaze.

I moved my hands to her waist, then up to her breasts, tracing my thumbs over the silk, over hardened points there. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, and her eyelids fluttered shut. The collar was low enough to take it further, and I know how much she loves what I did next: I drew her breast out in order to take it into my mouth. Grazing my teeth, licking, drawing my lips over the tip, eliciting short gasps and moans from deep in her throat as she moved on my lap.

Needless to say, I was already fully aroused again. Without ceasing the attentions to her breast, I grabbed her arse again and lifted her up. Instinctually she moved and within seconds we were reconnected; she let out a long groan, then began to ride me.

After drawing the other breast out, I brought an arm around her waist and treated it to the same attention. My free hand roamed up her thigh, and as my fingers moved again to where our bodies joined, she moaned again, entwining her fingers into my hair. The sensation of her nails against my scalp drove me wild and I picked up my pace. Soon she was shuddering and then she came with a loud cry of pleasure, tugging the hair she had caught in her fingers. Her thighs clenched, and then I came, too.

She collapsed forward against me, enfolding me in her arms as I held her close. "Oh, Mark," she said, her voice a papery whisper. Then, instead of the words I expected to hear—the usual "I love you" or something similar—she said, "This poor dress."

I couldn't help but laugh lightly. It was rather being put through its paces. "You're destined to never actually wear it anywhere, I think," I murmured.

"And it's definitely going to need to go to the cleaners," she said, sitting upright again, running her fingers back through her hair. (God, she's beautiful: hands to her head, elbows raised, breasts on display.)

"Worth it." I said, leaning forward to kiss her square between those breasts.

"We're not going to Horatio's, are we?"

Brought my hands to her waist again. "Nope."

"Oh," she said. "Goodie."

………

So you see, I have a gorgeous wife with the most perfect dress in the world for her, but have yet to bring her with me anywhere while she wears it.

Next weekend, though—I'm bringing her to a gala and because of our schedules, she's meeting me there. I'm ninety-nine per cent certain that she's planning to wear that dress with the matching shoes. How I'll ever get through the gala is a mystery.

_The end._


End file.
